Children of Thorns
by Kennie Barton
Summary: The Nephilim followed the Law, their governing mandate set down by the Angel Raziel and scribed by Jonathan Shadowhunter into the Codex. It had not changed, in anyway, since it was written down all those years before. Sed lex, dura lex. The Blackthorn Family had their own take on that. Lex malla, lex nulla. A bad Law is no Law.
1. Mark: Facade

It was difficult to interact with them. It was hard to read their guarded expressions, to interpret their closed off personas. It was hard to reacclimate to life with them.

It was hard to sleep when trapped inside four walls. It was hard to rest when everything felt foreign, and dangerous. It was impossible to relax after years strung out on adrenaline, and fearing the possibilities of an attack. It was horrible that those feelings of insecurity were amplified in what was supposed to be home.

But it did not feel like home. Those walls encasing him were no longer familiar. The faces of the others were no longer comforting, they had changed and grown distant. The building was more of a prison to him than his former prison had ever been. The place where his family lived, where he had grown, was not his home. And it was hard for him to remember when the large building had every felt like a home to him.

But it must have once. At some point the building, in all its vastness and museum-like qualities, must have held the same comforts to him as he had felt lying beneath the stars, or riding his mount through the sky. That place must have once felt safe and secure, otherwise he would not have been so determined to return to it.

It must have been important to him. It needed to be again, because that was where they were. They, with the guarded expressions, the closed off personas, and their own way of life, where his family. And he had missed them, missed them so much that he had driven himself toward the brink of insanity in an attempt to remember all he could about them.

But they were not the same. They used the same names, but their faces were different. Their personalities were different. At their core, they might have been the same, but what he could see of them was foreign. They were no longer his siblings, they were no longer the children he remembered and cared for.

But they were. And he hated that he could not see them as such. He hated that he could only see them as the small children he had known before. He hated that he had missed so much time with them. And for what? What had he been subjected to that made him miss them?

What had he missed by not being there?

Compared to what he had gained, what were those years? Compared to what he had seen, what was the loss of time? Looking at the two lives side-by-side, it seemed he had lost more in returning. Looking at the life he had had, and then at the life he was trying to regain, it seemed he had chosen poorly.

This place was not his home. And though the others shared his blood, they were not his family. Not the family he remembered.

This life was not the life he wanted now. This place was not the place he felt he belonged. Everything was wrong, he could feel it. He could feel their judgement on him.

He could feel their resentment, having avoided the responsibilities that would have been his; though they knew deep down that it had never been a decision he was free to make. He could feel their wariness, he had been gone so long and knew nothing of their secrets; though he could accurately guess at some of them. He could feel their ire, they had all suffered and been through so much; but he had not suffered with them.

No, he had not suffered as they had. His torment had been different, though they would never know the full extent of what he had endured. Of what he had endured for them.

They would never know of what he had lived through simply because of their father, and the angel blood running through his veins. They had no clue of his sentence away from them. All they knew what was he told them, and he kept the details to himself. He was the elder brother, it was his duty to spare them such things. But it wore him down to do so.

He was tired of trying to act how they expected. He was exhausted by the façade he was attempting. He longed for a simpler time, when the Institute was home and his siblings were not strangers. He longed for the freedom he had once felt living inside those walls, and bound by the rule of the Clave. He longed for a time that he recalled more as a distant dream than a cherished memory.

He could still remember the warmth the Institute had offered. He could sense the familiarity of the building, like the sting of a blade after it had cut through flesh. He could still feel his old self, bound within the walls, not knowing what it was to truly be free.

But he could still taste the morning. He could still feel the wind tangling his hair as he rode through the dawn. He could still remember the silent companionship of the constant stars, both in Faerie and in the Mortal world. He could still smell the earth and taste the seasons on his lips. He could still remember freedom.

Not the freedom of the Clave. Not the freedom of his family, with his family. But real freedom.

Or, at least the supposed freedom the Hunt had granted him. When he was still bound by the law of the Hunt, though it had been different than the Law of the Clave. The Hunt was more lenient on some matters, yet more rigid in others. And though it was a banishment sentence, a life sentence in exile, it felt more like freedom.

It was difficult to interact with them. It was difficult to know when to make a joke, or to understand the references they teased. It was difficult to know when a line was crossed, to know where to draw the lines between them. It was difficult to understand the world they lived in, and the roles they played in it.

It was hard to read their guarded expressions. It was hard to know what they thought when they never showed their hearts. It was hard to know them, when the insisted on retaining their distance. He had not been there, and he could go again. They were not willing to open themselves up to that pain a second time. And he could not blame them.

It was impossible to interpret their closed off personas. It was impossible to know them, as he had once, when he had missed so much. It was not for him to know them now, it was not for him to assume he would. They were different, ravaged by war, calloused by time, and cautious with people. They had to be, and so they were to him by default.

They did not know him, and he did not know them. Which was why it was so hard to reacclimate himself to this lifestyle. He was a stranger to them, as mysterious as the Fey with whom he had spent so much time. But he would change that.

His blood, his family, there was nothing he would not do for family. Regardless of the toll it took on him. Despite the ridicule it would cause them with the Clave.

And they would do the same. Because there was nothing they would not do for family. It was not in them to turn away family. It was not in them to turn the blind eye, like so many others in the Clave.

Mark was drained by the façade he was living. Which was why he so desperately wanted to make it a truth. He wanted his family back, and there was no easy way to do it. He would join them, in their vast, hallowed Institute, and he would stay. Because losing them, to him, was a fate worse than death.


	2. Julian: The King's Son

"Jules, I want a bedtime story." Tavvy ducked his head into Julian's room, pushing the door open slowly, tugging a blanket along behind him. It was a better way to ask to stay in his room than he normally gave, Julian had to give him that. Normally Tavvy cried until Julian picked him up, and cried when they tried to lay him down in his crib.

It had been months like that, Julian sharing his bed with his siblings. Sometimes all four of his younger siblings found their way into his bed. Usually it was just Tavvy, who was still so small.

Julian knew his youngest brother was just making sure Julian was still there. They had lost a lot in such a short amount of time, Tavvy was just trying to make sure that Julian was still there. Julian was both annoyed by Tavvy's clinginess and found it completely endearing. And he hated that he felt annoyed by his brother. Tavvy was his responsibility, just like Dru, and Livvy, and Ty.

"Come here," Julian sighed, holding his hands out to his brother. He was laying on his bed, his hair still dripping wet from his shower, exhausted by a full day of training with Emma, Livvy, and Ty. But he held his hands out to his brother regardless, ready to pull the toddler up in the bed and forget the rest of his plans for that night. Not that there was much for a thirteen-year-old to do, but what he had planned was no longer going to happen.

Happily, Tavvy toddled over to Julian, holding his arms up toward Julian. His smile was infectious, Julian smiled as he hefted the boy up on the bed. In a matter of moments Tavvy was curled up in Julian's lap, with his blanket and Julian's sheets gathered around them.

"What story do you want?" Julian asked.

"All of them," Tavvy answered reaching his chubby little hand toward the thick book of fairy tales sitting on Julian's nightstand.

"All of them?" Julian repeated, giving the back of Tavvy's head a dubious look. He leaned over and lifted the book up. It was an old, well-worn, copy of the Brothers Grimm Fairy Tales, and weighed heavily in Julian's hands. Tavvy had never stayed awake to hear all of one of those lengthy stories. Julian doubted he could even stay awake long enough to read a whole tale in one sitting.

Julian could remember his mother reading him stories from that book. He recalled her reading the stories to Ty and Livvy too, she had never had trouble reading the whole story. She had read to them in a way that kept them awake. That was something Julian had still not mastered.

"Yes," Tavvy answered, grasping at the book as Julian settled it in front of them. "All of them."

"How about just one?" Julian suggested, flipping through the pages of the book to the next story he had not started for Tavvy. "And then we'll have another one tomorrow night?"

He had not intended to promise Tavvy a story the next night, but some things could not be helped. Like crying baby brothers, and exceptionally long fairytales from Germany.

"All of them," Tavvy repeated, opening the book up to the story he wanted, _The King's Son Who Feared Nothing._

Julian had read _The King's Son_ a hundred times already. He had the sinking feeling he would read it a hundred more. He exhaled slowly, not wanting Tavvy to know how tired he was of that particular story, and lifted the book up so he could see the all-too-familiar first line: "Once there was a King's son who was no longer content to stay at home in his father's house."

Tavvy curled tighter into Julian's lap and blankets as he read of the prince and his trials, his hands gripping the cloth surrounding them. He gasped occasionally, his grip tightening momentarily. Julian smiled, reading to his brother.

"Jules," Tavvy murmured, running his small hand over one of the old pictures in the book. "Did daddy leave because he wasn't scared of anything?"

Julian gave his brother's head a careful look. Did Tavvy like this story because it helped him accept that their father was gone? Did he think that their father had gone off to find an apple for some Downworlder, or rescue a princess in a castle infested with goblins?

"He must have," Tavvy answered himself. "He went with Mark, cause he's not scared of anything either."

They had shielded Tavvy's view when Julian had killed their father. Tavvy knew their father was gone. He knew Mark and Helen were gone too, but not why. Maybe it was better that he thought they had left because they were not afraid of anything, off on some grand adventure. That was better than the truth, at least while Tavvy was still so young.

"Jules," Julian's door creaked open again, revealing Dru in her over-sized pajamas. She had tears on her cheeks, and sniffled as she looked through the door.

Julian sighed, looking at his sister. "Come on," he scooted over in his bed to make room for her.

Dru climbed haphazardly into the bed beside her brothers, nearly toppling backwards twice in her attempt, and settled in beside Julian. She wrapped her arms around Julian's and laid her head on his shoulder.

"I had a bad dream," she said quietly, looking at the old copy of Grimm's Fairy Tales. Julian wondered if she remembered when their mother had read the stories to her at bedtime. Did Dru remember their mother, her kind smile, and gentle laugh?

"Jules was reading about daddy," Tavvy smiled up at his sister, pointing at the picture in the book again. It was the King's son beside the tamed lion from the garden, it was possible that the man in the picture looked like their father. Julian could see how Tavvy could confuse the two, given how vague the picture was and how muscular both their father and the prince from the story were. "About how he left to save a princess, and pick the apple from the garden."

"That's not daddy," Dru frowned at the picture. "That's Mark."

Julian gave Dru a careful look.

Both of them, Tavvy and Dru, imagined their missing family in the story of the King's son. Did they remember their brother and father? Or where they just remembering the stories from him and the twins?

"It's daddy." Tavvy insisted, running his fingers over the picture. "He's brave, and strong. And he's going to save the princess after he beats up the giant."

"Daddy wouldn't want a princess. He went to be with mommy, and the Angel," Dru answered, her grip on Julian's arm tightening. "Emma told me so."

Of course Emma had told Dru something like that. She would know what to tell Dru to make it easier for her to understand. And maybe Tavvy too.

"Daddy," Tavvy repeated sternly, his blue-green eyes staring intently at the illustration in the book. Like the rest of them, Tavvy missed their father. And he was the only one who did not know what had actually happened.

"It's just a story," Julian ruffled his brother's hair and gave Dru a warm smile. "But you're both right. Dad and Mark aren't afraid of anything, just like the King's son."

Tavvy leaned back against Julian's chest, yawning. "When is daddy coming home?"

"He's no—" Dru started, only to be stopped by a gentle hand from Julian on her shoulder.

"Soon, Tavvy. Dad and Mark will be home soon."

"Good," Tavvy yawned again, curling into Julian further and holding his shirt tightly with his small fist. "I miss him."

"Me too," Dru sniffed.


	3. Tiberius: Salvum Me Libra Me

_Salvum me libra me_.

Old Latin. A mostly dead language, barely ever used for anything. Some people could still speak it, communicate with it. Some mundanes could anyway.

The Nephilim could read it, write it, speak it. The Nephilim lived and breathed Latin, using it as their native tongue. They all spoke Latin, and dozens of other languages, spreading their reach all over the world. It was they who kept the dead languages alive, because they were too set in their ways to change.

The Nephilim followed the Law, their governing mandate set down by the Angel Raziel and scribed by Jonathan Shadowhunter into the Codex. It had not changed, in anyway, since it was written down all those years before. Sed lex, dura lex. The Law is hard, but it is the Law.

The Blackthorn Family had their own take on that. Lex malla, lex nulla. A bad Law is no Law. That could be why the family has always been treated with caution. They acted on their morals, they refused to cowed, and they were a force to be reckoned with.

Tiberius Blackthorn could read Latin, he could speak Latin, and understand Latin. Not that Latin was a language he was particularly fond of. He found little use in knowing a language most people did not know. But Sherlock Holmes had known Latin, so there must have been some use for it.

His family spoke Latin, like all Nephilim. _Sed lex, dura lex. Lex malla, lex nulla. Facilis descensus averno. Pulvis et umbra sumus. Ave atque vale._

 _Ave atque vale._

Those words sat heavily on Tiberius' chest. He knew what they were, he knew the rest of the poem too, though he preferred to never think about it. He had muttered those words before, for people had cared even less about.

His mother, when she had died. They had burned her, entombed her in the City of Bones. He had been a child then, only seven years old. But even then, he had known what it meant. It meant she was gone forever.

His father, when he was lost to the Dark War. He had been burned, it had not been his fault that Sebastian had turned him with the Infernal Cup. He had been entombed in the Silent City, full honors. Tiberius had been ten then, and he had a better grasp of what it meant. He was orphaned.

But at fifteen, he had not expected to have to say those words again. He had not anticipated having to say those again for a long time. Jules was invincible, there was nothing that could bring his elder brother low. Mark was too wild, to certain of his abilities to allow a slip in battle. Helen was safe on Wrangel Island, with Aline. And Emma was Emma, nothing could hurt Emma.

And the rest of them. Jules kept everyone safe. He kept them at home in the Institute. He kept them away from the dangers of Downworld. Because he knew they were too inexperienced to be out there. They had not grown up in the War, they did not need to know how to fight like that yet. They were not ready to deal with it.

But Livvy had thought they were. For a time, Tiberius had thought he was ready for that too. With Livvy at his side, he had found himself as unstoppable as Jules, as certain as Mark, and as fierce as Emma. With Livia everything had been possible.

With Kit and Livia at his side; they could do anything.

 _Ave atque vale._

Tiberius wanted to put on his headphones and ignore it. He wanted to retreat to his room, with his computer, and his books. He wanted to disappear into the desert and just be. He wanted to go home, to before they found Annabel and learned about her and Malcom Fade, the former High Warlock of L.A.

He had never been in a world without Livvy. He had never been anywhere without Livvy. He could not live without Livvy, who grounded him as much as his headphones and computer did. There was no world without Livvy, not a world for Tiberius.

"Ty," It was Kit. Unsure of his place in the world. Uncertain of his status as a Herondale, as a Shadowhunter, as anything at all. Kit, who knew nothing about being Nephilim, who had come to Tiberius while his small world crumbled. Who would be there when his small world burned. "Julian said it's time to go."

Yes. It was time to go. Time to leave and watch his sister burn. Time to watch as his sister was entombed in the Silent City. Time to enter a world in which he was alone. It was time to go, but that did not mean he was ready for that.

"Cineri gloria sera venit," Tiberius opened and closed his hands at his sides, wishing he could do something, anything at all.

"I'm sorry," Kit was half hidden by the door of Tiberius' room, looking washed out in the white mourning clothes Julian had found for him. "I don't speak Latin."

"Cineri gloria sera venit," Tiberius repeated quietly, looking at Kit's reflection in the window, looking out over the gardens of the traditional Penhallow estate in the countryside of Idris. Aline had allowed them to stay there, after the disaster in the Gard. It was nicer than the Blackthorn Manor, since people still maintained it, and large enough to house their grief. "It means, 'glory paid to ashes comes too late.'"

"Ty," in the reflection, Tiberius could see Kit bite his bottom lip. "She was trying to help Julian."

Help Julian? Julian, the brother who had raised them? Julian who had done everything in his power, inside and outside of the Law, to protect Tiberius? Julian who had taken the time to try and understand Tiberius?

Julian who had refused to let them out on patrols? Julian who refused to allow them to test themselves against real advisories? Julian who had slain their father, before Tiberius' own eyes?

She had died to save her brother. Leaving another one to die. How could he possibly live in a world without Livia? How could the sun have risen without Livia there to greet it?

He knew it was possible, it must have been because it had happened. And her death was not the first he had ever seen. He was a Shadowhunter, they dealt in death. The lived and breathed war, chaos was in their nature, and destruction in their hearts. Gifts of the Angel, as if they were actual gifts...

"I know," Tiberius said instead, turning to follow after Kit to the entryway of the manor house.

The rest of his family was gathered already. Julain, hugging Tavvy tightly to his chest. Helen stood between Julian and Aline, holding Dru close and brushing her hair back from her face. Mark, his hands buried deep in his pockets, his mismatched eyes focused intently on the ground between his feet. They all wore white, with small red runes stitched in the cuffs of the sleeves.

It all looked so wrong.

"Where's Emma?" It seemed so wrong that they would do anything without Emma. She was part of their family. She had been since Tiberius could remember. She should be with them, when they were bidding the final farewell to their sister.

"She'll meet us there," Julian adjusted Tavvy in his arms, holding a hand out to Tiberius. "Are you okay?"

No. No, he was not okay. He was the opposite of okay. He was about to burn away his small sphere of comfort. They were about to entomb his sister beside their mother, father, and uncle. There was nothing about this to even hint at Tiberius being anything but a devastated wreck.

"Yes," Tiberius said instead, moving to stand beside Mark. Mark seemed as surprised by the choice as Julian was hurt. Kit followed Tiberius to stand beside Mark, and gave a brief nod to Julian. They were ready. As ready as they could be, at least.

 _Ave atque vale._

Latin. A dead language, barely used for anything. Some mundanes still used it, but even those numbers were dwindling. But the Nephilim still used it.

They were in love with the thought of being better than mundanes. Of being above the ravages of time. Latin had once been the primary language, the whole of the modern world had spoken Latin, back when Rome was still a power. And the Nephilim loved to show everyone, they were better than Rome. They still spoke Latin, because speaking anything else would involve change.

The Nephilim were obstinately set in their ways. They spoke the same words for the same rituals all over the world, throughout the centuries. They performed the same rites as their ancestors had throughout all of Shadowhunter history.

The Consul gave Livia the same rites that had been given to their father during the Dark War. Livia had the same rites as their mother had. The same ceremony as every other Nephilim in the world.

"Ave atque vale."

Kit stood next to Tiberius, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his white jacket. Mark stood behind them, a comforting hand on each boy's shoulder as the Consul set Livia's body aflame. Helen hid Dru's face and leaned heavily against her wife's shoulder. Julian hugged Tavvy closer as the boy sobbed into his shoulder, and reached out toward the flames with tears staining his cheeks.

"Salvum me libra me," Tiberius whispered, more to himself than anyone else. Livia was gone, there was no one left to catch his quiet commentary. There was no one left to return his snark and tell him when he was crossing a line. Without Livia, no one was going to answer him.

To Tiberius' surprise, Kit who responded. Kit, who knew nothing about the depth of Tiberius' relationship with Livia. Kit, who barely knew anything about being a Shadowhunter, about being a Herondale. Kit, who admitted he could not speak the secondary language of the Nephilim, responded.

"Serva me, servabo te." Kit said quietly, his eyes steeled as he watched the pyre before them.

 _Salvum me libra me._ Save me, please save me.

 _Serva me, servabo te._ Help me save you.


End file.
